


Five Times Lestrade Pranked Someone and One Time Someone Pranked Him

by pushingcrazies



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexuality, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Lestrade Pranked Someone and One Time Someone Pranked Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trueamericanenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Trueamericanenglish).



1) PC Davidson

The thing about working at Scotland Yard was that if one didn’t learn how to laugh, he or she would break down within a year. Lestrade had seen it happen. So he liked to devise a sort of…well, he called it a welcome committee. Some might call it (and had) a hazing ritual, but once Lestrade had informed his higher-ups that it was his way of weeding out those who would put a gun in their mouths when the going got rough, they tended to turn a blind eye when a formal complaint was issued.

It was never anything too extreme, mind. There was no duct-taping new officers to flagpoles…anymore. Not since Gregson had nearly caught pneumonia, well back in the day. No, their pranks were far more mature and befitting of their ranks.

Lestrade had a reputation of being something of a prank mastermind ever since Anderson had joined the team eight years ago when Lestrade had convinced him that “Can I borrow your stapler” was a coded phrase for “bomb threat” and then confiscated all the staplers in the office except Anderson’s. Poor boy had been twitchy for a week.

So when the new transfer arrived from Cardiff, Police Constable Andy Davidson, Lestrade was the one tasked with his welcome surprise.

“Mice,” PC Davidson said, his face strangely pale (although that might have been his normal colour, Lestrade wasn’t sure. “There are dozens of mice in my desk.”

“Mice?” Lestrade repeated. “Why are there mice in your desk?”

“I don’t know! They’re in all the drawers. I think some of them might be dead. And some of them have started making nests out of my paperwork!”

“Well, I don’t know how you lot did things in Cardiff, but here in London, we don’t keep pets in our desks.” Lestrade caught Sally’s eye and nearly blew his cover. “Best get them cleared out and in good homes. Or better yet, I think Detective Sergeant Pollock has a snake at home. He might be willing to buy them off you.”

PC Davidson looked a little green at the thought, but nodded. How had this kid made it this far, anyway? Lestrade wondered. He hoped Davidson figured out soon that the “dead” ones were really just very realistic stuffed animals.

2) DI Dimmock

Anyone who fell asleep at their desk was fair game. It didn’t matter if that person had been up all night on a stakeout and now had to put in a full eight-hour shift; anyone caught sleeping at his or her desk was bound to wake up with his or her shoes tied together or a faceful of whipped cream.

Dimmock was by far the worst offender; Lestrade was half-convinced he had some form of narcolepsy. How he had made Detective Inspector when he spent half his time passed out at his desk was beyond Lestrade. Okay, so he had a good close rate. And he often came in at half one in the morning because something had occurred to him when he was just about to go to bed. But still.

“Sir, Dimmock’s fallen asleep again.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and closed the file he’d been perusing. “Be right there, Sally.”

Donovan left, a smile threatening to take over her mouth. She always tried to act like she was above all the stupid, childish games, but when it came right down to it, she found Lestrade’s twisted imagination to be rather amusing. He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

Lestrade exited his office, and several people sniggered. They knew exactly what was going to happen. Well, not exactly. This was something he’d been saving for a good occasion. Today seemed as good as any other day. He slipped into Dimmock’s office; Dimmock had propped his feet up on the desk and was leaning back in his chair. Perfect.

When Dimmock woke up half an hour later, it was to find his shoes missing and a ransom note on his sticky pad. It took him the rest of the day and twelve sticky notes later for him to find one shoe in a potted plant and the other in the breakroom freezer.

3) The Whole Yard – including himself

Despite what everyone thought, Lestrade hated April Fool’s Day. It was a bit like amateur hour in a comedy club; sometimes someone was rather inventive and got a good laugh, but mostly it was just painful to watch. Loosening the caps on the sugar, fake vomit on the floor, pens that squirted water when someone when they tried to click them. Unoriginal. Boring. Dull.

At first, everyone expected him to go all out on April Fool’s Day and was surprised when he didn’t. Year after year, he ignored the holiday and barked at anyone caught doing foolish practical jokes. Eventually he gained a reputation of loathing April 1st, which, he realised one year, was the perfect set up for a masterful joke. The only problem was coming up with a prank so amazing that it befitted the only day in the year no one was expecting it.

He spent the majority of the 31st of March discarding idea after idea. One was too elaborate. One no one would fall for. One was pretty funny but a little too dangerous.

That was when Lestrade remembered the drug addict who occasionally showed up at crime scenes, claiming he could solve a murder in his sleep (except he never slept) and do so better than any detective on the force. No one ever took him seriously and more than once he had been tossed into a holding cell until he sobered up, but he had never been brought up on charges of possession, which nobody could quite understand. Gregson had a wild theory that the guy had connections in the government. Lestrade snorted at the thought.

But still…it would be the perfect prank. He would bring the guy in to look at a couple of cold cases and pretend to take everything he said seriously. The looks on everyone’s faces would be priceless and well worth the potential psych evaluation.

Plan in mind, Lestrade set about looking up the last known address of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

4) Gregson

There was only one person in all of Scotland Yard who could match Lestrade’s wit when it came to practical jokes: Tobias Gregson. They’d had an ongoing war ever since Lestrade had joined the Yard. Mostly assumed it was a friendly rivalry, though there were a few who thought the two men genuinely hated each other.

The thing was, Gregson was a few years older than Lestrade and had been on the force for a lot longer. And not a lot of people knew it, but Lestrade had been something of a…well, he liked to refer to it as being a “free-spirit.” Whatever he called it, however, did not change the fact that Gregson had once upon a time nicked him for public indecency. A few years later, when Lestrade had cleaned up his act a bit and went into policing as a career, he had been afraid Gregson would let slip his previous indiscretions. As for Gregson, he watched as some young, no-good punk climbed quickly through the ranks, and was bitterly jealous. Thus, an instant rivalry was formed.

Fortunately, they kept their battles rather civil. Rarely did their feud get in the way of work or justice, and mostly it restricted itself to after-hour pranks. Like last week when Gregson had stumbled across Lestrade’s clothes while the other man had been in the showers. It had been a long, stressful day, and Lestrade was taking his own sweet time. Gregson had run and got some tobacco sauce from the break room and rubbed a bit of it into Lestrade’s underwear. It was, needless to say, one of the most painful experiences of Lestrade’s life.

Which brings them to this week and Lestrade’s retaliation. He’d thought long and hard about this one. He waited until one evening when he knew Gregson would be working late. Gregson left his office to go eat dinner, which was the perfect opportunity. He would take at least half an hour, probably closer to forty-five minutes, Lestrade knew. He sneaked into Gregon’s office and opened up his overnight bag. He dug around until he found what he was looking for: Gregson’s tube of toothpaste. Lestrade took the tube and ducked out of Gregson’s office. It was half eight at night, so not many people were still around; those who were and saw him looked away. Everyone knew not to mess with Gregson and Lestrade when they were in the middle of battle.

Lestrade took the tube into the bathroom, where he emptied it into one of the bins. He then painstakingly refilled the tube to the exact amount with a cream used to numb canker sores. In small doses, it would be little more than an irritant, but if Gregson used it to brush his whole mouth, he would be numb for hours. Job completed, Lestrade hurried back to Gregson’s office to replace the tube. He went back into his own office and packed up his stuff for the night. Before he left, he practiced turning on the video recorder on his phone, just like Sally had taught him. He would make sure Gregson didn’t forget this one for a long time.

5) Sherlock Holmes

In Lestrade’s defence, the time he pranked Sherlock Holmes was a complete accident.

It was one of his typical initiation pranks, completely harmless and rather uninventive. In fact, it was one he had performed several times before. He got a small group of senior officers together, each holding a tall glass of water, waited for the unsuspecting initiate to come around a corner, and then gave him or her (usually him; some females thought this prank too closely resembled a wet tee-shirt contest) a ‘welcome to the Yard’ shower. Simple, silly, and as long as they didn’t do it in the middle of winter, not dangerous enough to cause complaints.

According to Lestrade’s information, Juarez would be coming around the corner in T minus ninety seconds. What he did not know, however, was that Juarez had been briefly detained by Detective Sergeant Allison and the next person out the door would be none other than Scotland Yard’s biggest pain in the arse and resident Consulting Detective, Sherlock.

Lestrade felt bad. He really did. Sherlock, in spite of being a complete arrogant sod, was really quite helpful, and Lestrade had a bit of a soft spot where he was concerned. But he took one look at the once tall, imposing, dark man now soaking wet and spluttering like a half-drowned cat, and he couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter.

“This isn’t funny, Lestrade,” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, doing nothing to dispel the image of feline affront currently occupying Lestrade’s mind.

“It is from where I’m standing,” Lestrade rejoined.

The officers had by now gotten over their initial shock and were sniggering and pointing at Sherlock. A few had gotten out their mobiles and were taking pictures. Lestrade took pity on him and hustled him inside, barking orders at the others not to follow and to delete the photos. He knew they wouldn’t, but he could at least try acting like he still had some authority around here that Sherlock hadn’t undermined.

He took Sherlock into the locker room, making sure no one was around before gesturing for Sherlock to take off his outer clothes. It was a good thing Sherlock liked layers so much. Lestrade fetched him a towel for his hair, still chuckling.

“You should have seen your face,” he said.

“Yes, very amusing, I’m sure,” Sherlock snarled.

“Oh, come on. Laugh. It was funny,” Lestrade said.

“No.”

Lestrade sighed and stepped forward. Sherlock was busy fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, so Lestrade rubbed his hair gently with the towel. Sherlock looked up at him, uncharacteristically uncertain. “You need to learn to laugh, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “Otherwise, this life? It’ll drive you mad.” He squeezed carefully, getting as much of the water out of Sherlock’s damp curls as possible.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Sherlock sniffed. Lestrade smiled. Pain in the arse he may be, but he was such a child at times that Lestrade couldn’t help but dote on him like he did his own daughters.

“Hold on, let me get you a spare shirt. Here, take the towel,” Lestrade said. Sherlock did as he was told, for once. Lestrade opened up his locker where he kept his workout clothes and other useful items. The shirt would be far too big, but it was better than sending the poor boy out into the crisp spring air without something to cover him up. Sherlock put it on, draped his jacket and soaked shirt over his arm, and left without so much as a thank you.

(What Lestrade didn’t know was that two years later, as Sherlock stood in the hallway of 221B Baker Street, laughing with one John Watson, the thought back to Lestrade’s advice on this particular day and found he knew exactly what Lestrade had been talking about.)

+1) Lestrade

Lestrade was undercover. In a gay bar.

Some people thought this was hilarious. They thought he’d drawn the short straw on this particular assignment and was probably hating his life right now. The truth was, he had volunteered to spare his coworkers the supposed “humiliation” of having to set foot in a place like this because, honestly, he just didn’t care.

Plus it didn’t hurt that he’d been to this particular bar once or twice before he’d gotten married, but the guys at work didn’t need to know that bit of information. Lestrade nodded at the bartender, who nodded back and began pouring his preferred lager. Okay, so maybe more than once or twice and maybe more recently than before the marriage. It was only because he enjoyed the atmosphere. He never let anyone pick him up.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t still look.

Tonight, though, he was looking for one specific man: Joel Rieser. Six-two, thirty-nine years old, well-built, blond, green eyes. Tattoo on his left bicep of an Ouroborus. Lestrade sat at the bar, sipping his lager and eyeballing the crowd; he had the best vantage point in the whole place, but how he would ever spot his own people, let alone a complete stranger was beyond him.

Two hours in, he had almost given up hope when he spotted their suspect on the dance floor, heading for the loo. Lestrade quickly shot a text to Donovan and Cooper, then stood up and followed him. It was fairly empty inside the restroom. Well, if you didn’t count the guy getting a blowjob in the last stall, but at least he was being mostly quiet about it. Rieser was relieving himself at the urinal, so Lestrade waited by the door until he had finished and washed his hands in the sink. Just as he was about to leave, Lestrade put out a hand to stop him.

“Joel Rieser?”

The man gave him a nervous glance. “Who’s asking?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He pulled out his handcuffs with one hand, the other still occupied with holding Rieser, in case he tried to do a runner. “You are under arrest for the suspicion of murder of Kyle Wittier, Jack Guerrero, and Simon Harrison.” Lestrade clicked the cuffs into place.

Rieser looked confused. “I don’t…who? Listen, mate…” The man in the stall finished with a loud shout, then whispered frantically to his partner.

Lestrade reached for his warrant card. What he pulled out, however, was a condom and a note scribbled on a piece of paper.

Lestrade. I believe the appropriate term here is “gotcha.” Joel Rieser isn’t the one responsible. You’re looking for someone considerably shorter and less muscular. More details to follow. –SH And on the back: P.S. Your wife is going to be out all night. Might as well have as much fun as she is having.

Lestrade stared at the condom, aghast. Rieser stared at the condom and smirked. “So…your place or mine, ‘Detective Inspector’?” Lestrade could hear the air quotes in his voice even with the man’s hands cuffed behind his back.

Lestrade started to decline. He unlocked the cuffs, but at Rieser’s look of disappointment and the swift once-over the man gave him, he swallowed and thought ‘sod it.’ His wife was with that damn P.E. teacher, Sherlock was somewhere being…well, Sherlock, the girls would be with their auntie all night, and Lestrade hadn’t gotten off in ages. The divorce was all but finalised anyway.

“Your place,” he said.


End file.
